h.b.irwin

Dear Swan (a response to Mutedness)

In Uncategorized on December 10, 2010 at 10:19 pm

about that poem

I wrote last year, you

were in it. at least,

in it the way you’re

in memories, unwillingly

present and pushed around.

that’s where I keep you quiet.

 

it was selfish and short

sighted, the way art

always goes. nobody better

fucking touch

some things. some things

aren’t tactile.

 

that’s where I keep you

quiet, but you can

talk. we both know

that’s my problem. I feel

someone else in my

throat making all those dumb

jokes and asking if

my tits are too

small. the mute swan is

the most common type

of swan. I assumed

you knew.

 

about that poem

you were a metaphor

for beauty or truth or

something, depending on

how you read it. what terrible

trite things, I know

you know it too—

that’s why we hang out swan:

we hate all the same things.

 

you were a

metaphor but I

know how much you

hate yourself how

angry you are at your

father for asking you to start

eating again maybe

join the track

team I know

about those

cigarette cherries

you push into your

peachy stomach skin

pushed in the way you’re in memory

the way no one knows you at all,

 

the way you are larger than

but closely related to

the way you’re in memory.

about that poem

I wrote last year

you were naked

and quiet, the way

art always

goes. but out

side of it you

are all swollen

up with hate

and I am just

asking you to

get out of  my

poem and come

back to bed. Come,

come.

 

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